Wednesday, February 25, 2015

An unconventional take on the Moscow Mule, this savory-sweet, vodka-based cocktail gets a kick from toasted coriander, cumin, cardamom, and saffron as well as loads of fresh ginger.

*Many thanks to Ritual Photo Work for sponsoring The Bojon Gourmet this month! Mitch and Jessica take the most stunning and unique wedding photographs around. Check out their work here.*

When Sarah was considering her flavoring plans for blood orange sodas a few weeks ago, her sentiments matched my own. "I pretty much want every drink ever to have ginger in it." I couldn't have agreed more. Which is why I immediately ordered a Mumbai Mule when my friend Vanessa (who makes these fabulous recipe and ingredient boxes) took me to ABV for the first time. I had a dance rehearsal to attend afterward, but we sat at the bar and ordered a couple of drinks and some snacks. It quickly became my new favorite.

ABV has a minimalistic aesthetic that I adore. They offer no plastic straws with your drink, nor utensils of any kind with your food. Vittles include halved and grilled little gems topped with green goddess dressing, salumi plates, tiny fish and chips, and the ABV – a box of vegetables, a.k.a. pickles! You don't need a dictionary to read their menu, which is cleverly organized by type of spirit, yet each drink is inventive, well-balanced, and very quaffable. The vibe is relaxed and the bartenders friendly – no easy feat in the hipster-infested Mission.

Vanessa always orders the same two drinks, and I followed suit. We each started with a Tarragon Collins, tall glasses of gin shaken with bright green simple syrup and lemon. The bartender divulged the secret of the green drink, which happened to be my very same secret for obtaining green ice cream: the chilled syrup was blended with loads of fresh tarragon, then strained, maintaining its fresh flavor and vibrant hue.

We finished our first round and, sensing that it was safe to have another, I followed Vanessa's lead and ordered a Mumbai Mule, a cloudy golden drink garnished simply with a spring of mint. The first sip was eye opening: intensely spicy, almost savory, with just a hint of sweetness and citrus. It was a far cry from the usual mule, syrupy sweet gingerale topped with cheap vodka. It was what I want every mule – every cocktail, really – to taste like.

Somehow I ended up at dance practice, giggling and reeking of gin. Somehow my dance buddies found this not repulsive but appealing, and we all ended up back at ABV afterwards, where I tried two equally tasty drinks, one full of smoke and bourbon, the other an herbaceous brandy and honey concoction. I was hooked. (And subsequently, hungover.)

But it was the mule I couldn't get out of my mind. I tried in vain to recreate it at home, using the same technique as the Collins and pureeing and straining fresh ginger with simple syrup to preserve its bright, floral flavor. I wasn't sure where the spiciness was coming from, but I tried adding cardamom, turmeric, and honey. Tasty, but not quite it.

Then when Jay surprised me with V-day resos at our favorite Indian restaurant in the Lower Haight, we decided to swing by ABV for pre-dinner cocktails. The place was bustling but we managed to score two seats at the bar where we shared a mule and a collins (I've since instituted a two-drink limit). I casually grilled the bartender, who said that the vodka was infused with coriander, cumin, and lots of saffron. "No cardamom?" I asked. "No cardamom." I learned that while most mules get lime, they use lemon in theirs as it pairs better with the other flavors.

Rather than risk botching large quantities of vodka with faulty infusions, I toasted the spices and added them to the syrup, and I did add a bit of cardamom, which gave the drink a touch more depth, I thought.

Thus I present to you my version of ABV's mumbai mule. The saffron and fresh ginger give the drink a pretty golden hue, and the coriander, cumin and cardamom all blend into a subtle background spice. Use a decent vodka here; I like Hangar 1. I think our bartender summed it up best. "It smells like you're about to take a bite of Indian food," she said, "but then it tastes like a rad cocktail."

In a small, heavy skillet, combine the coriander, cumin, and cardamom seeds and saffron. Heat over a medium flame, shuffling the pan frequently, to toast the spices until they are fragrant and start to pop, 30 seconds once the pan is hot.

Meanwhile, stir together the sugar with the boiling water until dissolved (or mostly dissolved). Add the syrup, toasted spices, and ginger to a blender and blend until fairly smooth. Strain the syrup through a very fine mesh strainer, pressing on the solids to extract the good stuff. Use immediately or (preferably) chill the syrup until cold, at least 1 hour and up to several days.

Make the mules:

In a shaker or jar, stir together the vodka, ginger syrup, and lemon juice for 30 seconds. Strain into a highball glass filled with ice, top off with sparkling water, and top with a mint sprig. Taste, adding more lemon or syrup if you feel the drink needs it. Enjoy immediately.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Vegetarian and fishy sushi rolls brim with quick carrot-daikon pickles, shiso, shiitake mushrooms, scallions, avocado, cucumber, shiso, and kaiware sprouts. A how-to guide and a video collaboration with Snixy Kitchen. All images and video were shot and styled collaboratively by Sarah and myself.

My dad instilled in me a love of sushi from an early age. We would sit together at the sushi bar, clean our hands with steamy washcloths, and order directly from the chef – California rolls and yellowtail nigiri for me, more exotic choices for him – until we were full. One of my favorites was a big, fat vegetable roll filled with pickled carrot, avocado, cucumber, sweet egg, and other things I didn't know the name for.

Sushi remains one of my very favorite things to eat. It's light and clean-feeling, and I can never seem to get enough. Luckily for me, we have a superb sushi restaurant in our neighborhood called Umi. I never miss a chance to take out-of-town guests there, especially my dad, and I use its proximity to our laundromat to my advantage as often as I can get away with. Umi boasts a menu full of unique and sustainable fish, nightly specials ranging from pristine tiny oysters to butterfish to Dungeness crab, and fresh hon wasabi root grated to order. They have a handful of small plates – grilled fish and meats – and delicious vegetable starters such as grilled eggplant and sesame-dressed broccoli rabe.

The only thing Umi doesn't have is a big vegetable roll (though sometimes they'll let you order a vegetable tempura roll off the menu [but you didn't hear it from me]). So when Sarah let on to the fact that she makes sushi on a weekly basis, I gave her sad puppy-dog eyes until she agreed to show me how. I headed to the East Bay to make my veggie futomaki dreams come true.

We spent the day buying up everything we could find at Monterey Market and Tokyo Fish Market, then concocting a sushi feast complete with quick carrot-daikon pickles, kaiware and pea sprouts, tamago, shiitake mushrooms, umeboshi, shiso, scallions, cucumber, avocado, and two kinds of fish. (She also fed me this incredibly delicious pineapple fried rice from her blog – yum!)

And we made a video!

Someday I hope to be as good at rolling sushi as Sarah is. Until then, she should expect to find me showing up on her doorstep at odd hours, with a bottle of sake and a hopeful look in my eye.

Head over to Snixy Kitchen for Sarah's account of our day and some recipes.

I hope this post has inspired you to throw a sushi party of your own (and invite me!). And if not, there are always sushi bowls for a quick fix...

Vegetable Maki with Quick Carrot-Daikon Pickles and Shiitakes

Tamago (sweet omelette) can be found in Japanese markets, or make your own. This recipe makes more than enough pickles for a whole lotta rolls; extras will keep refrigerated for weeks and can be put in salads or sandwiches (I'm thinking bahn mi for the rest of mine!). We used a combination of yellow and orange carrots, purple and watermelon daikon, but feel free to play with any roots you like. They only need to sit for 30 minutes or so to become tangy, or you can make them a few days ahead and let them do their thing in the refrigerator. I've included my favorite sushi fixings below but feel free to mix and match as you like. Get the rice recipe, fish suggestions, and rolling technique over at Snixy Kitchen.

Make the pickles:
Peel the vegetables and slice them into thin matchsticks short enough to fit in a pint-sized canning jar. Pack them fairly tightly into the jar; you may not need them all. In a heat-proof measuring cup, stir the boiling water with the sugar and salt to until dissolved. Stir in the rice vinegar. Pour the brine over the vegetables in the jar; you may not need it all. Cover the jar and let the pickles sit for at least 30 minutes at room temperature or up to a few days in the refrigerator. To use, pull out a handful, dry on a paper towel, and roll!

Cook the mushrooms:

Place the mushrooms in a colander and rinse briefly under running water (really, it's ok!). Shake dry. Trim off any brown ends and slice them 1/4-inch thick. In a wide skillet, heat the sesame oil until it shimmers. Add the mushrooms and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until they're soft and golden, adding more oil to the pan if it looks dry. Deglaze with the mirin and taste for seasoning. Let the mushrooms cool a bit before rolling.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Inspired by a recipe from Williams Sonoma Home Baked Comfort, this recipes adds a few twists to the French classic: blood orange zest flavors vanilla custard which sits atop bittersweet chocolate ganache, all crowned with caramelized blood orange rounds.

For years, Valentine's Day for me was about dessert. I mean that in the strictly professional sense of the word. Like most, the restaurant where I worked as a pastry chef would create a special dinner menu, and I would jump at the chance to feature something lusciously out of the ordinary. The owner, who also held the title of executive chef though he spent most of his time running other aspects of the restaurant, wasn't a chocolate person and frequently blocked my chocophiliac tendencies from the menu. Valentine's day was my one chance of the year to splash out.

I would pour love into my Valentine's day desserts. One year it was an airy chocolate roulade cake filled with white chocolate mousse and served over a blood orange compote. Another it was a deep, dark chocolate chile pot de crème topped with pepita brittle.

But to my dismay, the desserts never sold. We would run the special for several days afterward trying to use it up, but most of it ended up either in the staff or the compost.

I was perplexed. The usual chocolate desserts always sold heads and tails above the others – double chocolate buñuelos with crème anglaise, or chocolate rum tres leches cakes – so I knew the V-day diners weren't chocolate haters. I had no explanation. I just figured people didn't like what I was offering, and for this reason I was too ashamed to discuss my frustration with any of my coworkers.

The last Valentine's day I worked was a different matter. Knowing that the desserts never sold, I planned something especially special. I cooked up a batch of sweet lemon crepes which would be pan-fried to order and garnished with a dollop of Pisco sabayon and blood orange supremes. I made about 10 orders of the labor-intensive components, of which I figured we'd sell only a few as per usual.

The head chef, Santos, came in as I was leaving. "I hope you made a lot of dessert 'cause we gonna sell A LOT tonight."

I froze. "Why?"

Santos explained that the reason the specials never sold was that the servers neglected to tell the customers what the specials were. "Tonight," he declared, "we printing the menus!"

In shock at learning the true reason for the abysmal special dessert sales, further proof of the poorly-managed restaurant, I showed Santos how to plate the crèpes and gave the plate to the servers to taste, decreasing our count from 10 to 9 orders. They sold out within the first hour of service, for which I of course got a talking to from my boss. The spirit of Valentine's day was certainly not in that air.

Thankfully, my days of maddening restaurant work are far behind me, and I can make tiny portions of dessert and know that they will be eaten. By me and my chocophiliac sweetie. So I put together these crème brûlées inspired by this recipe from William's Sonoma, originally published in Home Baked Comfort, which was beautifully photographed by my buddy Eric Wolfinger. I add a layer of chocolate to the bottom, blood orange zest to the custard, and I torch the orange rounds with sugar to create a crunchy crust.

I hadn't made crème brûlée in a while – since my pastry chef days, actually – and it was a pleasure to pull out my kitchen torch and feel a bit bad-ass again.

Speaking of dangerous kitchen equipment, I want to take a moment to rave about my new chef's knife. It's the one recommended by America's Test Kitchen, by the makers of Swiss Army Knives, Victorinox, and it vanquishes the competition every time in their thorough tests and costs half as much. It sliced through the dense chocolate wafers like butter, and it's lightweight and comfortable to hold. I'm in love! this Valentine's day, why not give your valentine the gift that says, "I trust you with sharp objects?"

Crack through the bronzed sugar crust and your spoon dips into softly-set custard that tastes like the most decadent creamsicle you've ever had, and below that is a layer of bittersweet chocolate ganache. The juices from caramelized blood orange segments mixes with it all for an eye-opening (and eye-catching) take on the French classic. Bon appetit.

Blood Orange Chocolate-Bottom Crème Brûlée

This recipe makes a petite batch of crème brûlée, serving 2-3. If you don't have individual 4-6 ounce baking dishes, small canning jars can be used to good effect. A kitchen torch makes these a breeze, but you can try sticking these a few inches under the broiler, watching them like a hawk to prevent scorching. Or you can skip the sugar lids altogether for a divine layered pot de crème situation. The custards can be cooked and stored, covered tightly, in the fridge for up to 3 days. Torch them to order, bien sûr.

Position a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 300ºF. Have ready 2 (6-ounce) or 3 (4-ounce) heatproof ramekins, canning jars, bowls, or cappuccino cups, a small roasting pan, and a piece of aluminum foil. Bring a kettle of water to a boil.

Make the chocolate layer:

Place the chocolate in a small bowl. In a small saucepan, bring the cream just to a boil over a medium flame, swirling the pan occasionally. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate, let it sit for 1 minute, then whisk gently until smooth.

Pour the chocolate goodness into the waiting ramekins and place them in the freezer to firm up.

Make the custard:

In the same saucepan, combine the cream, orange zest, and vanilla pod and scrapings. Over a medium flame, heat the mixture, swirling frequently, until small bubbles appear around the sides of the pot and the mixture is hot and steamy. Remove from the heat, cover, and steep 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the egg yolks in a medium bowl and whisk in the sugar and salt to combine. When the cream has steeped, gradually whisk in the hot cream, whisking constantly. Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve and into a pitcher, pressing on the good stuff to extract the flavor. (You can rinse and dry the vanilla pod and use it to make vanilla extract or sugar.)

Place the chilled, chocolate-bottomed ramekins in the roasting pan, and divide the custard mixture among the ramekins. Cover with the foil, poke a few holes in it, and peel back a corner. Place the whole thing on the oven rack and carefully pour in enough boiling water to come halfway up the sides of the ramekins. Close the oven door and bake the ramekins until the custards wobble like Jell-o when you give them a jiggle, 25-35 minutes. Be careful not to overbake or the custard will turn grainy; if bubbles appear around the sides of the custards, remove them immediately.

Remove from the oven and let cool until you can remove them from the water, then cool completely. Cover and chill the custards until firm, 2-4 hours or up to 3 days.

Finish the custards:

Sprinkle a chilled custard with enough sugar to coat it in a thin, even layer, about 1 teaspoon. Tilt the ramekin and tap it around to even out the sugar layer if need be. Use a crème brûlée torch held a few inches away from the sugar and pointing straight down to gently caramelize the sugar. If it starts to blacken, pull the torch further away, and use a circular motion to evenly torch the whole top. Now repeat with a second teaspoon of sugar; this will make a thick lid that is pleasing to crack. Repeat with the remaining crème brûlée(s). Chill for 10-20 minutes to harden the lid and cool the custard back down.

Meanwhile, cut the ends off of the blood oranges and place one cut-side-down in a cutting board. Use a sharp knife (I like a serrated knife) to pare away the peel and white pith, following the curve of the orange. When the pith is removed, turn the orange on its side and slice into 1/4-inch thick rounds.

Place 2-3 rounds atop each crème brûlée, sprinkle them with another teaspoon of sugar, and torch the sugar with the crème brûlée torch. Serve immediately.

I rarely cook seafood at home due to my extreme squeamishness. This dislike of handling raw, formerly-living critters developed while working at my first restaurant job. I was 17, on summer break, when a French chef at a restaurant down the street from us gave me a job as a pantry cook.

I would come in every day, check the inventory, and begin prepping for the day's salads and cold appetizers. Most of my tasks were simple: wash and chop romaine, make croutons, cut vegetables, emulsify dressings. Some days, I also got to bake bread – individual buns filled with garlic and rosemary and leavened with fresh yeast. Others, I learned to make crème brulée, tiramisù and fresh pasta. Service would start and my day would become a frenzy of salads tossed with various dressings in large bowls. I left each day coated in oil and reeking of vinegar.

All of which I didn't mind one bit. I LOVED my job. I thought it was the coolest job anyone could have ever. (Particularly when the bartender would swap me a piña colada for a slice of cheesecake, or the cooks would slip me an order of lobster ravioli.)

What I did not love was the shrimp.

Seafood Louie salads sold like hotcakes and it was my job every day to blanch a vat of jumbo shrimp, rip off their little legs, and devein them. I HATED ripping the legs off the shrimp. I imagined hearing their little shrieks of anguish, and with each pull I would be awash with crippling guilt. The shrimp may have been long gone, but I was dying a slow death on the inside.

One night, I made a critical error. It was my first Friday night working alone and the restaurant was packed. Orders started pouring in and when I opened the cooler to make a louie salad, my hand stopped short. I had forgotten to cook the shrimp.

In a blind frenzy, I threw a pot of water on the burner and cranked up the heat. I tore through the freezer and found only a bag of cooked, peeled shrimp. I dumped them in the boiling water and went back to making salads. My chef walked into my station, saw the cooked shrimp boiling away, and turned puce with rage.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOINGGGG???!!!" he screamed in his thick Southern French accent that I could barely understand.

I don't really remember what happened after that. I didn't get fired. I didn't cry. I probably made a lot of salads and went home to get high with my bad-news high school boyfriend while listening to Radiohead.

But I do remember that that was the last time I ever cooked shrimp.

So when my dear friend Ana suggested making cioppino together the other day, I hesitated. In addition to my own shrimp baggage, Jay, a recovering vegetarian, is also squeamish about seafood. At home we rarely venture beyond smoked salmon on morning toast. But I love a bowl of brothy cioppino, which Ana informed me was invented not in Italy but in our very own San Francisco back in the day. I enjoyed a superb version years ago at a long-gone restaurant in Santa Cruz which involved saffron and fennel in the broth and a chunk of crusty bread served to the side. We set about to recreate it.

Using this version from Simply Recipes as our guide, we wandered down the street to our local Whole Foods and loaded up the cart with clams, mussels, fish, stock ingredients, a bottle of wine and a sour batard. In the seafood aisle, the shrimp waved to me with their little feet. I recalled the ripping sound they would make and winced. But then Ana said, "These are the ones I got last time," and gestured to a pile of peeled, cooked shrimp. Salvation.

Back at home we sauteed, steamed and simmered between clicks of the camera. I was slightly terrified of working with shellfish, but the process surprised me by being stupid easy. The clams and mussels took minutes to steam open, the fish was simply cut into chunks and added to the soup base to cook briefly, and the shrimp took only the effort of being dropped into the pot of simmering soup to heat through. Little did I know how fun it would be to work with and photograph these new shapes and textures.

Ana has an eye for detail and is one of the most fun, sweet, creative, and upbeat people I've ever met. She styled these shots in ways I never would have thought, and I'm kind of in love with the results. We were particularly thrilled to sit down after a long afternoon of cooking to bowls brimming with saffron-kissed broth, tender shellfish, pepper, herbs, and all manner of other good things.

This cioppino is deceptively simple to make, and the result is a giant pot of bright and beautiful seafoody goodness.

Many thanks to Ana of Fluxi on Tour for the super (ha!) fun day! You can read her account of our collaboration and find out more about the history of cioppino here.

Cioppino with Fennel and Saffron

Feel free to mix up the seafood here. We liked this combination, but you could also use lobster, crab, or other fish such as halibut or cod. Be sure to serve this with a bottle of wine and some crusty bread for mopping up the broth.

Place the clams and mussels in a steamer basket set in a pot over 2 cups of water. Cover and bring to a simmer, steaming the mollusks until they open. Remove the mollusks and strain and reserve the broth.

In a large soup pot, heat the oil and saffron over a medium flame until the oil shimmers, then add the thyme, onion, and fennel. Cook, stirring frequently, until the onion is tender, 10 minutes, then stir in the garlic, cook for 1 minute, and add the salt, tomatoes, white wine, mollusk steaming water, vegetable stock, and bay leaf. Bring the soup to a simmer and cook, partially covered, for 20 minutes.

Add the fish and continue to simmer until cooked through, 3-5 minutes. Add the shrimp, mussels, and clams and cook to heat them through. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt if you feel the soup needs it.

Ladle the soup into wide bowls and top with a good drizzle of olive oil, a shower of parsley leaves and fennel fronds, a few turns of black pepper, and a squeeze of lemon.